


Sunder

by thatsakitkat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Bottom Dean, Cutting, Daddy Issues, Dark Sam Winchester, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fucked Up, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Possessive Sam Winchester, Self-Harm, Top Sam, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsakitkat/pseuds/thatsakitkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean feels Sam’s hands in places they shouldn’t be. “Not stopping, not going to deal with this anymore. I’m sick, I’m <i>so</i> sick, Dean.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeletncloset (alexa_dean)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [撕裂](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11500206) by [WincestJ2CN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WincestJ2CN/pseuds/WincestJ2CN)



“It’s not fair,” Sam’s saying into his ear, pressing him into the bed, “not fair how you look, how you act, what you do to me. That I can’t have you.”  
  
“Sammy,” Dean says, trying to move, sick inside because oh God, what is this, what happened, and he can’t fucking get Sam off him. “Sammy, you, you—c’mon Sam, stop.”  
  
Sam laughs breathlessly, victorious like all the psychos on darklit TV, leaning down harder, and sure, Dean could hit him, snap his head back, but could he? Dean can’t see them now and he’s glad for it, all those red slashes carved along his brother’s upper arms, still bleeding. Can Dean fucking hurt him anymore?  
  
Dean feels Sam’s hands in places they shouldn’t be. “Not stopping, not going to deal with this anymore. I’m sick, I’m _so_ sick, Dean.”  
  
You’re not, Dean wails in his thoughts. He is. “I’m gonna fuck you, mm, yeah, I’m just gonna fuck you forever,” Sam says, leaning off but Dean still can’t breathe. Sam keeps fucking talking, words hitting together, leaking out through a filter too frayed to stop them, “Gonna wreck you. Ruin you, don’t you get it, Dean? All I want. I thought,” Sam barks a laugh, “I actually thought I could go to college, that I could get away from you?”  
  
When did you stop thinking that and start thinking _this_ , Dean wonders. He can’t speak. Not under the onslaught of Sam’s words.  
  
“Was fooling myself. Told myself all these lies to trick myself, so I could forget I was sick.” Sam’s pulling on his clothes. His breath is stormy and Dean thinks he might be crying again. “Why can’t I do it. Why can’t I pretend anymore. It’s you, it’s you. Fuck, Dean, I _hate_ you.”  
  
Sam jabs a hand into Dean’s flank, makes him topple. On his back Dean can see him again, the blood snaking down his arms like red tattoos. It’s all he can see.  
  
Sam grabs the knife he’d been using to slice his skin, the knife Dean gave him for his sixteenth birthday, fuck, two years ago, a lifetime ago, and brings it down in a blink. Dean starts, honestly expecting the pain of a blade between the ribs, who knows anymore, he doesn’t know what Sam _is_ , but Sam’s just cutting his shirt off, ripping the blade through the cotton threads. Dean chokes at him; seems the only sound he can make.  
  
“Have you ever been fucked Dean?” Sam asks as he saws through Dean’s belt. Dean’s hips squirm at the proximity of the blade to his dick, breaking a sweat. Sam’s not being careful with the knife, fingers shaking, slippery with blood.  
  
“Yeah,” he says, thready, but his voice would shake more on a lie.  
  
Sam doesn’t look surprised. He slides the belt from the loops then drops the knife and starts ripping apart Dean’s fly. “Who? Dad? You let Dad fuck you?”  
  
Revulsion has bile sweeping up Dean’s throat. “Fucking Christ, Sam, _fuck no_! That’s sick!”  
  
“It is sick,” Sam agrees. His palm is leaking heat through Dean’s jeans, making something coil inside him.  
  
“Dad would never touch me, you gotta know that Sam.” Dean closes his eyes and swallows. “A few times, with some barhoppers. Paid me for it. Good money. Five-hundred for five minutes. Can you get better than that?”  
  
It was just sex. It’ll just be sex _now_ , Dean tells himself, when Sam pulls off his jeans and briefs, baring his crotch, his thighs, his ankles.  
  
Dean’s looking at Sam’s arms again. Sam put big gashes there this time, and they’re still bleeding over his old scars, his new scabs. There’s blood all over him, Dean, the bed.  
  
Sam grips him under the knees and slides him down the bed, away from the pillows and into the middle of it all. Sam seems to pause then, take a breath. He flattens his hands on Dean’s thighs and feels them up and down. “Can’t get over it, Dean,” he says, “look at your legs. They’re just like that huh? Spread already. Used to having somebody between them huh? Then you always, you always walk like you’ve been fucked. Like you’ve been fucked so much and so hard it bent your bones.” Another breath rustles. “Fuckin’ cruel invitation, Dean.” Sam’s eyes move up his body, flare when they find Dean’s lips. Sam moves so fast it’s unsettling, diving between Dean’s legs, crushing Dean’s dick with his weight.  
  
“And these.” Sam’s warm breath on his face, black honey voice trickling in his ears. He’s pushing his thumb into Dean’s mouth. It tastes like copper and steel. “Your lips. You know Dean, I used to kiss you in your sleep.”  
  
Dean closes his eyes.  
  
“I started when I was fourteen. I’d put my tongue in your mouth.”  
  
Sam’s thumb isn’t near the back of his throat, but Dean chokes on it anyway. “I’ve kissed you a thousand times,” Sam says. “I’ve been sick for years, you know, this isn’t new. It was all you, always. First time I jacked off, I did it listening to you fuck some bitch. Listening to the noises you made. When you came I came too. When I first fucked someone, I told them to turn over and be quiet, so I could pretend it was you.”  
  
Sam’s only whispering, but every syllable explodes in Dean’s head. Like Sam’s got a .45 to his skull and just keeps pumping the trigger, bang bang he shot me down. “I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t quit thinking about you. Nothin’ I did worked.”  
  
All Dean can smell is rust. When Sam’s thumb pulls out to outline his lips, Dean says, “Sam, you gotta let me stitch you up. I think you mighta hit an artery.”  
  
“Kiss me,” Sam says, and Dean looks at him. Everything is there on Sam’s face, sharp vulnerability and desperation. “Please. Just, kiss me.”  
  
What will you do if I don’t. Look what you did when I didn’t. There’s no choice here. Dean licks his lips and holds his breath and digs his hand into the bed as he tilts his head up, catching Sam’s mouth with his.  
  
Sam’s grateful sound is so loud it’s a scream. He responds eagerly, pushing Dean’s head back down with the force. Dean accepts Sam’s tongue in his mouth the way he has unconsciously a thousand times and tries to find the familiarity in it. He doesn’t let himself half-ass it; makes sure he’s kissing Sam back every second, sweeping his tongue over Sam’s teeth, his gums. He brings his hands up to Sam’s warm hair, pounding heat unfurling low in his belly. A startled moan bursts out of him when Sam pushes into his stiffening cock.  
  
“You gonna let me fuck you,” Sam says between sucking lips and the slip of his tongue in Dean’s mouth, “you gonna let me fuck you hard all night? You want me inside you? I want that Dean, I want, _ah_ , to fuckin’ bury myself in you.”  
  
Dean stutters. Sam gives him another heavy kiss and pulls up. Dean stares at the ceiling, breathing hard, cock harder. He can’t want this, but Sam needs it, and Dean’s scared as he’s ever been for and of his brother. “Sammy,” he says, “please don’t hurt yourself anymore.”  
  
Sam has a tube of lubricant. He’s kneeling between Dean’s legs and opening it and it sounds like a gunshot when the lid pops up. His lack of an answer cuts at Dean, pulling apart his shredded heart. Makes him angry again.  
  
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Dean hisses, “I give you this, I’ll give it to you, you can have _everything_ , but you don’t—don’t fuckin’ cut yourself anymore, and whatever else you do, I don’t know, puke your guts out when I’m not around, play in traffic, that needs to stop, you hear me?” Dean shakes with it.  
  
Sam’s lion-cut eyes spring to Dean’s face. And really, looking at him, Dean hates himself for not seeing this sooner. There’s heartbreak in Sam’s eyes, the corners of his mouth, even his hair falls sad and hopeless. Dean had seen all this and thought it was because some girl had dumped him, rejected his prom invite or something. Something small and fleeting and it still is, because Dean’s not fucking worth all this.  
  
“S’not like I’m gonna kill myself,” Sam’s saying, looking down at his own fingers as he squeezes out the lube. “I did that, never have a chance with you would I?” His glossy fingers spread in the light. He’s got all four of them slicked, but that’s okay, they’re long but on the thinner side, and his nails are bitten painfully short, and Sam loves him in a wretched way but not, Dean thinks, in a cruel—  
  
Sam pushes one of Dean’s legs to his chest and just delves his index and middle inside. Dean hitches up all over, hips trying to jump back and away. It’s horrible, invasive, Sam might as well have sunk his fingers into his eye socket. Dean holds an arm over his eyes and says, “Fuck, stop, stop, please.”  
  
Sam turns his fingers, vertical then horizontal. Dean feels the barely there sensation of fingertips pressing around within, taptap, and feels like Sam’s dropped him on the floor and let him crack open and pour out.  
  
Hot saliva filling his mouth is the warning he gets. Dean slaps a hand over his lips as his stomach contracts and acid fills the empty space in his mouth until he shakes his head and swallows, keeps swallowing. Can’t puke on Sam’s bed after all, even though it’s already ruined with blood and Dean spread naked across it.  
  
When the contents of his stomach are back where they should be, Sam’s got three fingers in him. Dean covers as much of his face as possible, wants to pull Sam’s pillow over and suffocate himself with it, but that’d be too obvious wouldn’t it.  
  
“You’re too tight, Dean,” Sam says, airy like he’s not even there anymore. He’s probably not. Probably checked out of the building around the time he started threading his tongue through Dean’s unconscious lips. “You sure you’ve been fucked before?”  
  
Dean has. With men’s cocks, but never anything else, never their fingers, which are so much worse it seems; he wants to tell Sam to pull them out and just fuck him, because he can’t stand the gross squirm of the digits inside him. Fuck, he can’t stand that it’s _Sam_.  
  
“Know how much I thought about this?” Sam presses in more insistently. “Every day, every damn minute for years I wanted to just hold you down and fuck you. On your back, your stomach, up against walls, on your car. I couldn’t push those thoughts away.”  
  
Sam pushes Dean’s leg up higher and twists his wrist as he jabs his fingers all the way in, and Dean gives a useless cry when Sam presses that spot inside. He’s grabbed by the undertow and sucked under while pleasure crashes over him, pouring into his skin and head.  
  
He stifles any further noise, holding his lips to his teeth and breathing through his nose. Dad’s downstairs and his hearing is damn impeccable. Dad can’t know about this; the scars on Sam, Sam’s fingers inside him, the red flick of Sam’s tongue over his smirking lips as he keeps on digging into Dean. None of that can ever exist outside this room.  
  
“Hurry up,” Dean grunts at him when Sam just continues to play with his ass, eyes lasered onto Dean’s repressed reactions like he wants to pull each one off Dean’s face and enshrine them someplace dark.  
  
Sam nails his fingers in deep and says, “Jerk off.”  
  
Dean’s hips try and pull up away from the pressure in his hole, but it’s like Sam’s got him on a four-prong hook. When his hips flatten out again Sam moves his arm side-to-side and shows Dean how much he’s caught; Dean’s lower body moves with him like Sam’s tugging his puppet string.  
  
Sam swirls his hand, lines of his fingers held against Dean’s upper wall, moving Dean’s hips in little circles effortlessly. “S’like I got all of you hooked on my fingers,” Sam says under his breath. Dean wishes he hadn’t heard it. The ability Sam has to jerk his hips around just by pressing one direction or the other makes him feel tethered to red sin and black cruelty.  
  
Sam holds his fingers still again, fingertips just barely tapping on Dean’s prostate. “Touch yourself, c’mon Dean, lemme see.”  
  
No no no, Dean’s supposed to lie here and let Sam have what he wants, not eat the apple with him. “Fuck me already.” Five minutes, five minutes, maybe three ‘cause he’s a teenager, fuck he’s a _teenager_ , but then Dean can take a shower, shove everything away and go downstairs and get drunk with Dad because nothing happened.  
  
Sam drops his leg and darts for Dean’s closest hand. Dean pulls back against it, shaking his head. “M’not doing it, just fuck me and get it over with. I’m not doing it Sam!” Dean hisses when Sam keeps trying to force his hand down. “You wanna fuck me then fuck me.”  
  
Sam’s face loses all its light. He curls his lip and drags his fingers out of Dean’s hole, wraps big hands around Dean’s hips and flips him onto his stomach. Dean gets up on his hands and past the roil of fear in his gut thinks finally, a shower’s only three minutes away—  
  
Sam hikes him back then falls on him, his coarse jeans abrading Dean’s ass as he covers him, hands planting near Dean’s. Sam jolts his hips into his ass and makes Dean’s back and shoulders arch under his body. Sam catches the curve of Dean’s ear in his teeth and stretches the flesh back a little. “You think,” Sam whispers, chewing on his skin, “you think I’m gonna just spend a few minutes on you? Inside you? When I’ve been thinkin’ about this for _years_? You think this is some kind of slam,” another jab of his hips, voice creeping out into a growl, “bam thank you Sam? Huh?”  
  
Dean can’t think. He wants a shower and a beer. He wants to sew up Sam’s cuts. He wants to turn the clocks back so he can wake up and catch his brother kissing him and he wants to crash his knuckles into Sam’s face again and again.  
  
Sam sighs, lets Dean’s ear go with a last graze of teeth. He presses the point of his chin into Dean’s shoulder and everything’s still a moment. Dean can feel Sam’s heart beating away on his back, the solid press of his dick and feels caged.  
  
Sam kisses his skin. “Said I was gonna fuck you all night.”  
  
And then his heat’s lifting off. Dean adjusts the width of his hands, hangs his head. He listens to fabric rustling as Sam pulls his shirt over his head, then the clink as he undoes his belt and trepidation starts cooling his guts. The few times he’s been fucked he’s always been in some kind of control. Not like this. Dean chews on his lip and takes a breath. “Sam, how about I—”  
  
The smooth brush of skin-to-skin gusts away the words in Dean’s throat. Sam’s hands are back on his hips, scalding fingers spreading over too much flesh. “You gonna be good for me Dean?” Sam asks, voice drizzling down. Dean watches his own fingers clench in the bed as he feels Sam rock his cock up his crack. “You gonna let me fuck you like Dad fucks you?”  
  
“I said Dad never—”  
  
“You want him to, don’t you.” Dean clenches up when he feels Sam’s cockhead catch at his rim, but Sam keeps on just sliding his dick in the crevice, pushing down on Dean’s hips to make his ass tip up. “Daddy’s little soldier. You’d spread your legs as soon as he gave the order.”  
  
“Shut up,” Dean growls, “shut the fuck _up_. That’s fucking disgusting. He’s our _Dad_. Why’re you sayin’ this shit?” Why are you doing this, why did you do it.  
  
Sam grunts before his next words, and good, maybe he’ll come like this before he even gets inside then pass out, “Sick recognizes sick. You, Dad, I see it. Why do you think I hate him? Because he won’t let me be _normal_?”  
  
Sam cuts a laugh that makes all the muscles in Dean’s back cringe. “Because he has you in all the ways I want to have you,” Sam says. “He doesn’t even have to try.”  
  
Sam’s dick presses at him, but it’s just a tease. Dean grinds his teeth. “For someone who wants to fuck his brother so bad you sure are taking your sweet time!”  
  
“Why?” Sam says breathlessly, the cage of his hands closing in tighter, delving under Dean’s bones. “You want it rough Dean? Like it that way? Like this?”  
  
Sam’s cock stabs inside. Dean immediately grabs onto the headboard and tries to drag himself away from it, fucking hurts, and he’s squealing like a stuck pig—  
  
“No you don’t, Dean, no you fuckin’ don’t,” and Sam rips him away from the headboard, hauls him back and sits up on his knees. His hands stamp down on Dean’s shoulder blades and crush his chest down.  
  
Dean spits out his mouthful of sheet. “No not like that you bastard! Goddamn it Sam! Don’t fuckin’—don’t fuckin’ move. Swear to God, if you didn’t already kick your own ass...”  
  
Sam doesn’t fuckin’ move at least. Once Dean’s ass isn’t burning he squirms out from under Sam’s palms and twists himself away, grunting when Sam’s cock slides out. Sam starts to move, to pin Dean down again but hell if that’s the way this is gonna work. Dean forces his weight into Sam’s shoulders until he falls back on the bed. “You wanna do this, we’re doing it my way,” Dean says, pushing down when Sam tries to push up.  
  
Sam settles at that, surprise, then satisfaction sprinting across his face. “You wanna ride me Dean?” he asks hotly, gesturing with his hips. Dean’s eyes, instinctively drawn by movement because fuck no he doesn’t actually want to see his baby brother’s dick, swerve to Sam’s crotch.  
  
Dean feels his heart cringe and drop. “Oh God, why the hell did you do this to yourself,” he groans, ghosting his fingertips over the rows of red scabs lining Sam’s inner thighs. One right after the other with hardly a sliver of skin between, almost looks like Sam took sandpaper and started skinning himself.  
  
A certain kind of rage bubbles in Dean. He wants to hurt Sam for hurting himself. He wants to take Sam’s knives and guns away. He wants anything that has a shine and a point out of the house and into the nearest lake. He wants to tell Dad Sam needs help and not from Missouri or Pastor Jim but real civilian help in the form of a stale white room and soft clothes and hourly checks.  
  
Sam smiles and it looks like it hurts. He pulls on Dean’s wrist and says, “C’mon,” in a feathery, coaxing tone. Dean straightens his arms and back and because he can’t and won’t do any of those things, he swings a leg over Sam’s hips and balances his hands on Sam’s shoulders.  
  
Sam holds his cock steady in one hand and Dean’s hip with the other, and when Dean starts dropping down onto him Sam’s face screws up and his mouth starts shaping words. “Shut up,” Dean grunts even though he’s making most of the noise.  
  
Halfway down he tries to stop and adjust but he doesn’t, and the last few inches come all at once like he’s slipped. He shakes and pants and he’s fucking skewered on the thing, he’s killed himself on it.  
  
Sam gasps, eyes and head rolling back. Dean finds himself staring at the line of his neck and seeing thin white scars across his throat that he knows aren’t there (Sam wouldn’t do it where he could see them) but it’s too easy and horrible to imagine.  
  
Sam rolls his hips under Dean’s, like he’s testing how his cock feels in Dean’s body. “Better than I ever thought it would be,” Sam groans. “Fuck.” He holds Dean’s hips in place, forcing him to just sit there impaled and stuffed. Dean feels too full. It aches and it’s uncomfortable no matter which way he tries to shift his hips in Sam’s hold.  
  
“Feel so good Dean,” Sam says, “you’re squeezing me so damn tight.” He looks at Dean, eyes gleaming slits. He lets Dean’s hips go and touches his chest, strokes his shoulders and down his arms. “You like my cock in you, don’t you,” Sam says, dark. “Bet I’m bigger than the other guys. I get you where they couldn’t.” He jolts his hips up and Dean grunts, air pushed from his lungs. He spreads his knees wider and straightens his back, hands off Sam’s shoulders and resting on his own thighs instead.  
  
“You don’t know how long I wanted this,” Sam says, though Dean has an idea now. Sam gets up on his elbows, then sits up. His torso’s very warm against Dean’s, and his hot lips burn the column of Dean’s bobbing throat. He feels Sam’s hands on his thighs, under his ass, lifting him up a little.  
  
He watches Sam’s deltoids flicker as he holds Dean open and apart, almost lifting his knees off the bed and there doesn’t seem to be any effort involved. Dean feels a little like a doll.  
  
Sam inhales sharply when his fingers sneak into Dean’s crack and feel over where he’s split apart around his cock. “Oh fuck Dean,” he says excitedly, fingering the stretched skin, which makes Dean burn and itch. Shifting his hips to relieve the feeling, Dean can’t keep the gasp in his lungs when Sam’s cock slides where it’s sweetest.  
  
“Fuck,” Sam breathes as Dean clenches. “You feel s’good.” He nips under Dean’s chin then takes his hands off him, sits back on them. He regards Dean with his animal eyes, tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip and temples. He tosses his hair out of his face and smiles. “Go, Dean, c’mon. Fuck me.”  
  
Dean shuts his eyes and ducks his head. At least he’s controlling this, even if that control might be cobweb-sturdy. If he doesn’t look and tries not to hear, he can almost pretend this isn’t his brother. He curls his fists and rises up as far as his thighs will allow, lets himself collapse back down. Sam’s cock is big, it’s thick, so overwhelmingly _there_ Dean couldn’t get out of his head if he tried, couldn’t black this out.  
  
He starts off slow, adjusting, but when he’s used to it—and fuck, you can get used to anything, even your brother inside you and his hot stare and way he husks faster, faster—Dean’s moving up and down like it’s nothing.  
  
When he’s drawing up, Sam’s hips pound upwards, sending his cock deep. Dean grunts, wind knocked out of him and rhythm thrown off. “Hard, Dean,” Sam says, “like this.” He does it again, hips smacking into Dean’s ass.  
  
Dean’s aching in places he didn’t know he could ache, sweating all over, but he says, “Fuck, okay,” and adjusts his position before he starts riding Sam again.  
  
He does it harder, like Sam asked, till he’s dizzy and his teeth are rattling with it. Slapping skin, his sounds and Sam’s in his ears, sweat stinging his eyes, and still Sam doesn’t look satisfied. Dean wears himself out quick, has to slow down again, panting hoarsely.  
  
A discontent noise erupts from Sam. He moves and catches Dean around his arms and forces him under.  
  
Dean finds himself on his back and pushes at his brother’s chest. “No, Sam—” but Sam’s already fucking him, banging inside.  
  
“No?” Sam asks, carving Dean out with his cock. Dean almost can’t hear him over his heart in his ears. “You don’t know how to fuck yourself right. You need it rough, or it’s not good for you or me.”  
  
Dean can’t breathe, feels like he’s drowning, bombarded with waves. He’s getting sore inside, and Sam’s hands are hurting his arms as they push them down into the bed, probably be bruises there later, finger-shaped and in the same spots Sam makes himself bleed.  
  
Men have never thrown him down like this. Never felt like they could thrust so hard they’d smash him like dropped glass.  
  
But Sam doesn’t seem to appreciate him on his back either. He slips his cock out of Dean and smacks his thigh like he’s a horse. “Get on your knees.”  
  
Dean catches his breath in the soupy air, then sits up and just lengthens forward onto his hands. Sam’s on him before he can even get his legs in order; hot, wet weight and his cock pushes back in. “Back where we started,” Sam says, ringing his arms over Dean’s ribs. Dean almost collapses under his weight, hanging his head and anchoring his fingers in the flannel sheets.  
  
Sam’s dick stabs his prostate, again and again like he’s got it on fucking radar. It starts feeling so good Dean can’t stifle himself, and he’s moaning in the damp air, Sam echoing him, agreeing, mocking. His rhythm never skips, and Dean wonders what the hell kinda shit Sam’s done to himself his teenage brother can go longer than two minutes. Jackhammering, drilling into Dean. He can feel the vibrations in his teeth and lungs.  
  
Sam moves them again soon enough, hurried like he’s got limited time and wants to sample every position he can put Dean in. He sits back against the headboard and topples Dean back onto his dick. No leverage here; Dean tries to find it in Sam’s licorice-lined arms, fingers slipping in sweat, blood, tries to set his legs around Sam’s to get purchase on the bed, but Sam doesn’t let him.  
  
“Stop,” Sam breathes on the edge of his shoulder, and all the heat in the room seems to surge back into Dean when he stills. Without movement and mindlessness, he’s very aware, to every breath and twitch of muscle, to Sam. To his brother’s dick tucked up in his body like it always belonged there, all along.  
  
“Don’t,” Dean says.  
  
The point of Sam’s nose drags through his freckles. His nipples are pin-sharp against Dean’s back, and Dean rolls his head back and his mind trails along that thought, that all of Sam is too sharp. Dean’s own personal knife.  
  
“It looks like we killed somebody in this bed,” Sam says, voice so far away it’s too close. Hands on Dean’s wrists, coiled around small bones, scabs on his arms raking Dean’s, recently sliced bits leaking beating heart blood.  
  
Dean can’t hear anything. He feels the resonance of Sam’s voice against his back, and the tense of muscles and sees the way Sam digs his toes into the bed and he feels the jerk of his cock inside, deeper. The harsh way their bodies move, room jumping up and down and making Dean’s head pulse. The way they keep spreading out, falling out of position, falling down.  
  
Dean sits up again, his body does, heaving like an ocean wave with some base urge to keep fucking, because that’s all life is; finding a way to keep on fucking.  
  
It’s maybe Dean’s fault Dad starts knocking on the door; he’d been staring at it, the jumbled, shaking smear of it, and wondering if Sam locked it.  
  
Dean lets go of his dick and his smooth push-pull skips when he hears Dad. “Everything all right in there?”  
  
Door knob turns and Dean turns to ice, mouth opening to throw up his heart, but it only turns the little bit it can with the lock in place.  
  
Sam’s hands snatch his hips and pull them back in, reseating Dean. “Guess you were making too much noise.”  
  
“Dean? Why’s this door locked?” _I want you to listen to me, Dean, we don’t lock any doors ever_.  
  
Sam’s grip tightens, then he sits up, his chest pressing to Dean’s shoulder blades once again. For a few seconds, he’s just as quiet as Dean, his cheek against Dean’s ear. Then his voice glides out, “Everything’s fine, sir!”  
  
Everything is the furthest from fine, Dean responds inside his head, hissing between his ears.  
  
“Thought I heard something. Dean in there?”  
  
Dean opens his mouth. Sam slaps his palm over it, filling Dean’s nose with salt and copper-smelling skin. “Dean went out with that Kelsey girl,” Sam says, a growling undertone in his voice.  
  
That’s what Dean would’ve been doing tonight, if he hadn’t walked in on his brother butchering himself.  
  
Dad’s silent a second, then says, “Sam, why the hell is this door locked?”  
  
“I locked it. I can lock it if I want. What the hell, Dad? What kinda family doesn’t let their son lock his door?”  
  
“You don’t need this door locked. You know, Sam, I’ve had it up to here with you. It’s a simple instruction and it’s not that much to ask that you keep your door unlocked in case—”  
  
“What? In case my Dad wants to come in and see me jerking off to Anna Nicole’s tits?”  
  
Several silent beats pass. Dean can only stare wide-eyed at the span of wood.  
  
“Tell me when your brother gets back,” Dad says gruffly, and Dean hears the floor creak as he moves away from the door.  
  
“When are you gonna be back, Dean?” Sam asks softly, his voice sliding under Dean’s skin and his chuckle hammering at his bones. Sam rests his sharp chin on Dean’s shoulder and his hand moves to surround Dean’s cock.  
  
Sam forces him on his knees again, and then pushes him over onto his back. His dick sails back inside and Dean lets out a harsh breath.  
  
“You gotta be quiet,” Sam whispers, digging his dick in and out, Dean’s feet finding a stronghold on either side of his spine. “‘Less you want Dad to come back.” Thrusts rougher, faster. Sam’s breath a hurricane above him. “Maybe that’s what you want, hm? Huh? Daddy’s little soldier. Look at you.”  
  
Dean doesn’t look at anything. Keeps his eyes shut.  
  
“If Dad was smarter, he woulda gotten me away from you a long time ago.”  
  
“Sam, please, just—”  
  
“Mine now. We’re not going back from this, Dean. I can’t.”  
  
I hope it helps, Dean thinks. I hope it fixes you.  
  
He opens his eyes to look up at his brother looking down, and something cold and dreadful squirms in his head as he looks at Sam’s sliced arms and wonders how much skin Sam can really get back.


End file.
